Frank thought, ‘That’s reasonable enough – it might even be true…’ He said,
‘There was a torch in the pocket of her coat.’
Nicholas gave a short laugh.
‘No, really that won’t do! If she had had the torch out and been using it, it would have dropped and rolled. It wouldn’t have been found in her pocket.’
‘Unless the murderer put it there.’
‘Good lord, Abbott, what sort of nerve are you giving him credit for? The gazebo is right on the road, anyone may have been passing – Mrs Traill was passing – and Mrs Graham had called out. There may have been other sounds. Can you suppose that the man who has just strangled her is going to waste any time in getting away? Do you see him hunting round for that torch and putting it in her pocket? Because I don’t. And by the way, if that’s what he did, there would be his fingerprints on the torch, or if he had wiped them off, then there wouldn’t be any prints on it at all. Whereas if Mrs Graham had put it in her pocket, why then, Abbott, her own prints would be there, and I suppose the police would have found them.’
Frank nodded.
‘Point to you. They did. Now let us get back to what you did after the Grahams had gone in on Tuesday night. Which way did you walk – up the hill or down?’
‘Up. My first idea was to go back to Grove Hill House. It’s only a step, you know – up Hill Rise and just round the corner. I got as far as the corner, and realized that I didn’t want to go in. It wouldn’t be any good going in, because I shouldn’t sleep. I went back down Hill Rise and across Belview Road. There’s a lane there cutting between the houses – it’s called the Dip. It has never been built over, because it’s the quickest way down off the hill to what used to be farm land and water meadows. I went right down as far as it goes and turned to the left. After that I can’t say for certain. Even in the last five years that part has been a good deal built up. I got into a new building estate and out of it again. I wasn’t really thinking of where I was going. When I had walked as long as I wanted to I made my way back up the hill. I can’t tell you where I was half the time – I just followed the rise of the ground. In the end I struck St Jude’s church, and then I knew where I was – ten minutes walk from Grove Hill House. I can’t tell you what time it was when I got in. It was after midnight, because the street-lamps were out. I let myself in with a latchkey, and I didn’t look at a clock or hear one strike. I was dog-tired. I didn’t even wind my watch. I just chucked off my clothes and tumbled into bed. Take it or leave it, that’s the truth.’
Well, it might be. Frank Abbott inclined to believe that it was. Nicholas Carey’s voice, his manner, had been informed with a kind of nervous energy. It was as if what he had in his mind must come out, and with the least possible delay. There was not the slightest hint of aggressiveness. He had something to say and he was impatient to get it said. He had throughout the air of a man who is doing his best to remember.
Frank Abbott said,
‘Well, that’s your statement. I take it you would be willing to put it into writing and sign it?’
‘Right away. I’ll type it out now if you like.’
He went over to the dressing-table, sat down there, pulled the typewriter towards him, put in a fresh sheet of paper, and began to type. It was a rapid and expert performance. He went from one end of it to the other without so much as pausing for a word. When he had finished he extracted the sheet, took a fountain pen out of his pocket, and put a scrawled signature under the last line of the type. Then he came back to his seat on the bed, handing the statement to Frank as he went past.
‘There you are – that’s the best of my recollection.’
Abbott ran his eye over it. Good even typing, no mistakes, and hardly a variation from the spoken word. That word had left the impression that Carey was setting himself to remember what he had done after leaving the gazebo, and that the effort to do so had fixed it in his mind. That being so, he would not lose it again.
Nicholas said,
‘Anything else you want?’
‘Well, yes. You’ve made this statement about your movements on Tuesday night. I think I must tell you it doesn’t agree with another statement that has been made.’
Nicholas gave a short laugh.
‘I don’t feel called upon to account for what anyone else may have said.’
‘Mrs Harrison states that you were back at Grove Hill House by eleven.’
‘Mrs Harrison is mistaken.’
‘I am afraid that what she says doesn’t allow for a mistake. She states categorically that you returned to Grove Hill House by eleven o’clock and that you and she remained together for the rest of the night.’
Nicholas Carey’s thin dark eyebrows rose.
‘How very silly of her. I suppose she thinks she is giving me an alibi.’
‘You say it’s not true?’
‘Of course it isn’t true. I’m engaged to Althea Graham. We should have been married on Wednesday if all this hadn’t happened. It’s a preposterous story!’
Frank was inclined to agree with him. Nicholas went on with an edge to his voice,
‘It’s a preposterous story, and she’s a preposterous woman! I think I had better tell you she had put it up to me already and I had turned it down. The whole thing’s rubbish! It must have been at least after twelve when I got back. I had a key, and I went straight to my room. I didn’t see a soul. Poor old Jack, he didn’t have any luck when he picked her, did he? If she goes round telling this sort of yarn it’s going to hit him where it hurts. He’s a nice chap, you know, but he can’t cope. Honestly, Abbott, that story of hers is twaddle.’
‘And you stick to your statement?’
‘I stick to my statement.’
THIRTY-TWO
MISS SILVER WAS up in the attic at The Lodge. Mrs Justice had rung up just before lunch and asked whether Althea would feel equal to seeing her if she came round at two o’clock. It was impossible to refuse so old and kind a friend.
Miss Silver left them together and climbed the attic stairs. Since yesterday it had been on her mind that she would be glad of an opportunity to look through the books of which Althea had spoken and see whether there was indeed one which dealt with the history of Grove Hill, but until this moment the opportunity had not presented itself. But Louisa Justice was a motherly person and could be safely left with Althea. After a warm expression of sympathy she would not continue to dwell upon the tragedy. She had already informed Miss Silver that she had received some excellent snapshots of Sophy’s twins and thought it might interest Althea to see them. Miss Silver could therefore devote herself to a search among Mr Graham’s books.
The attic was airy and well lit, and the books were not packed away. A couple of large bookcases which had previously darkened the dining-room had been moved up here after Mr Graham’s death. It would have annoyed him very much, but his widow had felt that she could now do as she pleased. The cases accommodated most of the books, and the rest stood in piles upon the floor. History appeared to have been the main interest. There were eighteenth-century memoirs, both French and English – Boswell’s Life of Johnson in an old edition, books with fine engravings of cathedrals, an odd volume of Ancient Abbeys and Castles, Le Notre’s Romances of the French Revolution, Lady Charlotte Bury lapping over into the nineteenth century, and the memoirs of the Comtesse de Boigne. These books were all together in the lower shelves of one of the bookcases. Miss Silver was encouraged to hope that what she was seeking might be amongst them, but this did not seem to be the case, and since she had no idea either of the title or the author’s name, the task upon which she had embarked was not an easy one. All that she had to go on was Althea’s remark that her father’s books were up in the attic, and that she believed there was one amongst them which dealt with the history of Grove Hill.